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*  *  * 

This  is  an  authorized  facsimile  of  the  original  book,  and  was 
produced  in  1967  by  microfilm-xerography  by  University 
Microfilms,  A  Xerox  Company,  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  U.S.A. 

*   *   * 


DECORATIVE    PLAQUES 


DESIGNS    BY    GEORGE    F,    BARNES 


POEMS    B.Y  MARY   A.    W ILK  INS 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


BOSTON 
D.  LOTHROP  AND  COMPANY 

FRANKIJN  STKRRT 


DECORATIVE    PLAQUES 


DESIGNS   BY   GEORGE    F.-  BARNES 


POEMS  BY  MARY  E.    W1LKINS 


BOSTON 
D.    LOTHROP     AND    COMPANY 

FRANKLIN    STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1883. 
D.  LOTHROP  &  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 

i. 

A  REED  OF  ARCADY. 

u. 
THE  BABY  YEAR. 

in. 
•     EXPECTANCY. 

1  iv. 
THAT  LITTLE  HAT. 

\: 
THE  ALPHABET  OF  SPRING. 

VI. 

COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN. 

VII. 

THE  NAUGHTY  BABY-BOY. 

VIII. 

FEEDING  THE  BOSSY. 

IX. 

A  HINT  OF  THANKSGIVING. 

x. 
THE  WOODLAND   HORN. 

xt. 
THE   FISHER-MAIDEN. 

XII. 

THE  DOVES'   BREAKFAST. 


A  REED  OF  ARCADY. 

A   LITTLE   lair  Arcadian  maid  upon  a*  reed  once  sweetly  played 

One  of  those  lovely  tunes  of  old  the  reeds  in   keeping  used  to  hold, 
While  all  around  her  through  the  glade  danced  golden  leaves  and  leaves  of  shade. 

And  through  the  boughs  above  her  rolled  the  light  in  drops  of  finer  gold. 
And  when  she  piped  so  slender-sweet,  would  come  a-scurrying  to  her  feet 

The  little  bright-eyed  hares  to  hear  a  melody  so  fine  and  clear ; 
And  rosy-footed  doves  would  meet,  and  nightingales,  and  swallows  fleet 

On  boughs  and   flowering  bushes  near,  and  listen,   thinking  not  of  fear. 
She  danced  away  when  twilight  fell,  with  silent  reed,  and  broke  the  spell ; 

And  now  her  reed's  as  vain  a  thing  as  one  that  never  learned   to  sing. 
But  still  the  wee  wild-folk   that  dwell  in  those  old   woods  remember  well, 

And  at  the  first  sweet  whistling,  would  come  the  rush  of  foot  and   wing. 


THE    BABY    YEAR. 

• ' ,  .  •  . 

FIERCELY  is  the  north  wind  blowing,  drives  a  rasping,  sleety  shower; 

Yet  to-day  upon  the  mountain  there's  an   apple-tree  in  flower ; 

To  it  honey-bees  are  going,  butterflies  around   it  play, 

Near  it  through  the  snow,  a  fountain  leaps  in  whirls  of  silver  spray. 

In  the  tree  a  nest  is  swinging,  wove  of  rushes  green  and  sere, 

Softly  lined  with  down  and   roses  for  the  dainty  baby-year; 

Robins  in  his  ears  are  singing,  doves  and   bluebirds   round  him   skim, 

As  he  in  his   nest  reposes,  rosy  dawn-light  over  him. 

On  his   shoulders  wings  are   lying,  silver  lines   and   filmy  blue, 

And   his  eyes  are  twinkling  ever  with   new  lights,  like  drops  of  dew. 

Baby  years  to  earth  a-flying.  there  have   been   a   thousand   more, 

But,  thou,  pearl  of  babies,  never  came  one  half  so  sweet   before. 


EXPECTANCY. 

THE  gulls  were  flying,  the  ships  were  sailing  out  of  the  West  and  North ; 
She  sat  high  up  in   her  cushioned  window,   merrily  gazing  forth ; 
She  took   her  lute  with  its  broad   blue  ribbon,  and   daintily  touched  the  strings, 
Till   the  room  was  full  of  trills  and  quavers,   as  a  wood   when  the  robin  sings. 
Rosebuds  blowing  on  fields  of  silver,  was  her  gown  of  a  rich  old  stuff, 
And    her  sweet  face .  looked  Hke  a   rose  from   its  calyx,  out  of  her  royal   ruff ; 
She  beat  the  time  with  her  tiny   slipper,   and   sang  as  she  watched   the  sea : 
"  I   have  a  ship  that   the  fairies  have  laden,   a-sailing  the  ocean   to   me." 
While  she  was  singing,   the  ships  kept  sailing,   but   hers   came   never  in   sight, 
With  its  tall  black  masts  on  the  rim  of  ocean,  though  she  watched  till   the  fall  of 

night. 
But  she  fingered  her  lute  with  its  broad  blue  ribbon,  and  her  singing  was  just  a; 

gay: 
"  I  have  a  ship  that  the  fairies  have  laden ;  it  reached   not  the  port   to-day." 


THAT    LITTLE    HAT. 

*  TWAS  in  March,  a  windy  morning ;   apple-boughs  bent  out   and  in, 

Clouds  of  dust  whirled  round  the  corners,  Ust  year's  leaves  like  swallows  flew, 
When  she  tied  that  little  bonnet,  in  the  picture,  'neath  her  chin, 

Such  a  pretty  little  bonnet,  white,  with  silken  strings  of  blue. 
Then   when   she  had  kissed  her  mother,  off  to  school   the   darling  sped ; 
Half-way  there  a  wilder  wind- gust  snatched   her  bonnet  from  her  head; 
With   her  fluffy  locks  a-blowing,  staring  in  a  piteous  plight, 
She    could  sec  it  floating,  floating,  o'er  the  tree-tops,  out  of  sight. 
And  she  never  saw  it  after.    What  the   March  wind  could   have  meant 

Stealing   Bessie's  little  bonnet  with  its  silken   strings  of  blue. 
If  to  snowland,  or  to  flowcrland,   with   it  on   his   head   he   went, 

Long  they  pondered  and  they  wondered  ;    but  they  never  really   knew. 


THE    ALPHABET    OF    SPRING. 

SING  a  song  of  grasses   O!  bravely  they  begin  to  grow; 

O'er  the. southern  slopes  are  bristling  legions  of  their  fairy  spears. 
Sing  a  song  of  branches  O !   leaflets  green   begin   to   show, 

Folded  half,  and  dainty-pointed  are  they  as  a  squirrel's   ears. 
Sing  a  song  of  laddies  O  i   one   there   was  —  a  darling   fellow, 
With   his  eyes  as  blue  as  lilies,  and  his   locks  like   roses,   yellow; 
With   his  tiny,  peaked  slippers,   knots  of  ribbon   on   the   toes ; 
With  his  scarlet   ribbon-garters,   and  his  little   silken   hose. 
Out  'mid  budding  boughs  and  grasses,  on  a  sunny  April  day, 

Something,   of  a   sudden,   stopped   him,   wondering,   from   his  frolicking; 
And  he,   trustingly,  and  meekly,   as  a  happy  baby   may, 

In  a  moment,   for  a  lifetime,   learned   the   A   B   C   of  Spring. 


COME    INTO    THE    GARDEN. 

. 

O  LADY,  my  lady,  my  sweet  pretty  lady !   walk  out  'in  your  garden    to-day, 

For  the  peaches    flower  out    in   this  beautiful   weather,  and    the   apple  and   cherry-  , 

trees  blossom   together. 

Tic  on  your  hat  with   its  floating  white  feather,  and   walk    in   your  garden,  I   pray; 
Yes,  tie  on  your  hat  with  its  veil  and  feather,  and   take   up  your  peacock  fan. 
And  up  and  down  thro'   the  garden-alley,   with   a  gentle  air  and  a   stately  sally, 

As  a  beautiful  lady  can,   as   a  beautiful   lady   can. 

And   the  apple  and  cherry-boughs   blowing  and    snowing   over  your   lovely  head. 
All  of  the   way   will  a  carpet   be  spreading,   as   grand   as   it   were  for  a  princess' 

treading, 

Of  blossoms  of  gray  and  red,  of  blossoms  of  gray  and   red. 

So  you  in  your  garden  a-walking  this  morning  can   dream  you  are   Queen  of  the 
May.' 

» 

O  tender   green    garlands    the    bushes  are  wreathing,   and  mellow  sweet    airs  float 

by  for  your  breathing! 
O  lady,  sweet  lady,  my  sweet  pretty  lady!    go  walk  in  your  garden,   I  pray. 


I" 


«8iB*L  >^-r^:i^:<-^;*   ..••".•-'  -•-7  ^ 


,       THE    NAUGHTY   BABY-BOY. 

•  •  • 

ONCE  there  was  a  baby-boy,  on  a  pleasant  summer  day, 

Went  out  in  a  flowery  field  with  his  little  dog  to  play ; 

Velvet  mulleins  stood  around,  sorrel  bent  its  rosy  sprays. 

Yarrow  trembled,   blackberry-vines   took  their  graceful,   devious   ways; 

And  the  baby-boy  was  happy  as  a  baby-boy  could  be, 

And  he   played  till   he  was  tired  ;    then  beneath  a  spreading  tree, 

On  a  little   grassy  bank,  down   he  sat   to  rest  a  spell ; 

All  at  once  he   thought  he   heard,  sweet  and   far  away,  a  bell; 

Then  he  heard   a  voice  a-callmg :  "  Come,   come  home  now,  baby  dear ! ' 

First  the  bell,  and  then  the  voice,   tinkling,   calling,   he  could  hear; 

But  he  sat  still  with  his  doggie   underneath   the  spreading  tree, 

Just  as  sweet,  and  just  as   naughty  as  a  baby-boy  could  be. 


FEEDING   THE    BOSSY. 

DAISIES,  O  my  gentle  Bessy,  clover  red,  and  honey  sweet, 

Feathery  grasses,  bearded  grasses,  pointed   grasses   wet    with  dew  — 
Was  there  ever  anybody  had  such  lovely  things   to  eat, 

As  I've  heaped  up  in  the  manger,  pretty  little  pet,  for  you? 
Why,  I   wonder,  don't  /  like  them  ?    why   is   it   I'll  eat  instead, 

When  you've  had  your  breakfast,  after  mother's  called  me  in  to  ours, 
Ham  and  eggs  —  I   smell  them   cooking  —  and  a  buttered   slice  of  bread  ? 

Why  is  it,  I  wonder,  Bessy,  little   girls  don't  live  on   flowers? 
After   all  —  though  you  arc  pretty —  nobody,  I   think,  would  dream 

Looking  at   us   both,  you   lived   on   heaps  of  blossoms  wet  with   dew, 
And  I,  on   such   homely  victuals ;    for   I   really   think   I   seem, 

Though  maybe   I   should   not   say   it,  more   like   a   flower  than  you. 


A    HINT    OF    THANKSGIVING. 

HERE  he  is,  sir!    Now,  what  think  ?    Beats  last  year's  one  out  and  out  1 

Just  look,  mother !    Sis,  come  hero,  'tain't  a-snowing  much,  I  say ! 
It's  my  'pinion  there  ain't  one  miles  and  miles  and   miles  about, 

Half  so  big  as  him!    Sam  White,  if  he  wants  to  talk,  he  may. 
Yestculay,  he  says,  says  he:    "We've  got  just  the  biggest  chap  — 

Yours,  O  lor!    it  looks  to  me  like  a  chicken   side  of  ours." 
Then  he  walked  off,  grand  as  if  he'd  got  a  crown  on  for  a  cap, 

And  his  nose  a-sniffin*   up  's  if  he  smelt  a  bunch  of  flowers.       :  / 

Guess  he'll  see — but  J  don't  care.     My,  but  ain't  it  jolly  OI 

Here's  Thanksgiving  in  a  week,  .puddings,  pies,  and  all  the  rest  — 
Lots  of  nice  things  — Sis,  look  here,  after  all,  I   s'pose,  you  know, 

Every  boy  might  just  as  well  think  his  turkey   is  the  best. 


THE   WOODLAND   HORN. 

WHERE,  on  feathery  brake  and   star-flower,  lies  at  noon  the  morning  dew, 

Where  the  silver  poplars  twinkle  and  the  pines  like  wind-harps  play. 
Sat  a  lonely  boy  one  morning;  for  his  little  comrades  two 

Somewhere  'mongst  the  cool  green  shadows  from  his  sight  had  strayed  away. 
First  he  listened,  steady  staring ;  then  —  he  had  his    horn  with  him  — . 

He  would  send  a  tirra-lirra  flying  through  the  forest   ways, 
•"Tirra-lirra,  lirra-lirra,"   through  the   woodland   alleys   dim. 

Then  he  listened,  on  the  distance  fastening   his  earnest  gaze; 
"Tirra-lirra,  lirra-lirra,"    blew   he  on   his   horn   again. 

Over  to  the  southward — can   it  —  some  ore  answered,  can   it  be? 
*  Tirra-lirra,  lirra-lirra,"  comes  from   far,   a  fainter  strain, 

"Yes,"  he  said, "  I   thought  I  heard   it  —  there's  the  fellows  calling  me!" 


THE   FISHER-MAIDEN. 

WHAT  she  caught  —  this  fisher-maiden  with    her    blowing  yellow  curls? 
Why,  her  net  —  so  runs  the  story  —  full  of  emeralds  and  pearls, 
And  some  broken  bits  of  glory  from  the  rainbows  in   the  river, 
Which  the  sunlight  of  a  morning  wakes  and  links   and  sets   a-quiver ; 
All  their  silver  fins  a-winking,  shot  the  groups  of  fishes  past. 
Right  and  left  the  jewels  dashing,  down  her  little  net   she  cast ; 
Up  the  emeralds  came  flashing  —  with  the  pearls  and    rainbows  ever, 
Hut  the  pretty  silver  fishes  tangled   in  amongst  them,   never. 
One  would  think   this   fisher-maiden   with   her   blowing  yellow  curls, 
Might  have  liked    the  bits  of  glory,   and   the  emeralds  and    pearls, 
Rut  all  day  —  so   runs   the   story  —  since  she   had   such   paltry   wishes. 
There   she  sat,    beside  the   river,   fishing  all   in   vain    for   fishes; 


THE   DOVES'   BREAKFAST. 

I*  the  grassy  farmhouse  yard,  southward  from  the  kitchen  door, 
There  she  stands  a-flinging  crumbs  from  her  little  pinafore; 
For  the  tender  little  girl  loves  the  pretty  helpless  things, 
Fluttering  eagerly  about  on  their  snowy,  humming  wings. 
Not  a  morning  comes  around,  but  her  hungry  doves  she  feeds, 
Lovingly  and  patiently  caring  for  their  simple  needs. 
Rather  breakfastless  herself  any  day,  she'd  choose  to  go, 
Than   to  fail   the  waiting  birds   she  has   taught  to  trust  her  so. 
Well,  my  little  kindly  heart,  after  many  a  sun  and  rain, 
All   the   comfort   that  you  give,   back   to  you  may  come  again ; 
May  be,  some  day,  you  will  be  set  at   peace  when  sore  bestead, 
And,  because  you  fed  the  doves,  like  a  dove  you  will  be  fed. 


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N9    553184 

PS1712 

Freeman,  M.E.W.          D42 
Decorative  plaques. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


